


Baby Steps

by raiining



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Agent Coulson is awesome in any universe, Kate Bishop is my hero, M/M, Marvel 616 and MCU crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton doesn't care for S.H.I.E.L.D.  This Agent Coulson, though, he might be different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Steps

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third fic I wrote/finished on my week off, ending my trio of rapid postings. The first and second were my virgin-squared!fic and the married-on-a-mission!fic. I wrote this one because we need more of Phil Coulson and 616!Clint Barton. Lots more. This is just my contribution to the pile I hope becomes a flood ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Beta'd by the fantastic Ralkana, whose edits always make me smile :)

“Hmmmm,” the suit said. He flipped a page in the file. 

Clint rolled his eyes and tipped back in his chair. He glanced towards the door again, and then back to the suit. Being at S.H.I.E.L.D. always made Clint twitchy.

The suit – Agent Coulson, Clint reminded himself – turned to the last page in the file. Clint was good enough at reading faces that he caught the minute widening around the eyes that the man tried to hide.

Clint grimaced. He knew which part the agent was reading. He had written it, after all. It was a mission report from his latest solo adventure. Clint didn’t usually file reports about stuff that happened to him off the clock, but this one had been different.

This one and the last one, Clint amended to himself, and maybe the one before that. He had starting only writing the reports because Rogers had asked him to make the effort, and Clint still had a hard time saying no to Captain America. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, but Steve’s face fell a little every time he did, and then Clint felt like an asshole.

He was an asshole by nature, of course, but not often to Captain America. Because it was, well, _Captain America_.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had been trying to work on “increasing the dialogue” between its organization and the Avengers. Clint read that as Fury trying to take over, and he knew Stark thought so, too. Rogers had insisted they try to cooperate, though, so Clint had rolled his eyes but agreed.

His first report had been two lines and a helpful diagram. He thought it showed style. The agent who filed it apparently hadn’t agreed. Clint had been asked – politely – to rewrite the report. The same thing happened the next time, even though it had been a different agent accepting Clint’s altered pages, and she had been a little less polite.

Clint, despite the lack of diplomas, degrees, or other fancy certificates lining his walls, wasn’t an idiot. He recognized that the second agent had been further up the chain of command than the first one, and that this third try – Coulson – was significantly up the line from _her_. 

He knew what this was: S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying to give him a handler. Clint narrowed his eyes as Coulson flipped the file closed. He didn’t need a _handler_.

“Better?” Clint asked, not actively trying to be an asshole but feeling pretty pissed that he’d been called in from his apartment to trudge downtown and be here for this meeting. S.H.I.E.L.D. could have asked over the phone if he wanted a babysitter and Clint could have told them no from there. It would have been a lot easier.

“I wrote it with more detail this time, just for you.”

Agent Coulson lifted his eyebrows at Clint’s tone of voice, but there was a faint hint of a smile in the lines around his eyes.

“Yes, you even used compound sentences. I’m impressed.”

Clint bristled, because – again – no diploma, but – _again_ – not an idiot, but Coulson raised a hand in apology.

“I’m sorry,” the agent said, and he actually sounded like he meant it. That was enough of a surprise to halt Clint’s reflexive comment.

“That was uncalled for,” Agent Coulson continued. “I simply meant that you actually put effort into this report, and that it shows.” He looked up from the file and fixed Clint with a steady gaze. It was at once calm and penetrating, and Clint wasn’t sure he liked it. “I know you understand the situation, Mr. Barton. S.H.I.E.L.D. is looking to become more involved with the Avengers. Director Fury would like our agency to be able to provide backup in times of emergency. During this scenario here, for example, S.H.I.E.L.D. could have been of use to you. I will admit, however, that learning how to best modulate that involvement has been... difficult.” 

Clint snorted, because that was the understatement of the year. S.H.I.E.L.D. either did too much or not enough. 

Coulson sighed. He seemed to agree. “The Council feels perhaps senior S.H.I.E.L.D. agents should become involved, working directly with particular members of the Avengers team, to better facilitate communication.”

Clint had figured that part out for himself. “Thanks, but I don’t need a babysitter,” he said. He fixed Agent Coulson with a look of his own.

To his credit, Coulson didn’t look away. He met Clint’s gaze and held it. “I know that,” he said. 

Startled, Clint blinked. Coulson nodded and looked back to the report. “Even after reading this... account... of the situation in which you found yourself, I am forced to conclude that you are right. You do not need a handler.”

Clint stared at him. The man sounded sincere. Coulson tapped the report with his index finger “But it sounds as though you could use a friend.”

Clint frowned, “I don’t – “

Coulson interrupted him. “I know Ms. Bishop has been of great assistance to you, and while I may not approve of involving minors assisting in superhero business, I understand that without her support you would likely not have survived this encounter. I can only be thankful that she was involved.”

Clint stared at him. “I’m not a – “

“As it is, Mr. Barton,” Coulson went on, ignoring him, “it is clear that you have no need of my support. I will recommend that you maintain your autonomy. Certainly this,” he tapped the report again, “would have remained a threat had you not involved yourself. Good job, Mr. Barton.”

Clint realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it, staring at Coulson in shock. There was no way that could be it. He tried to ignore the warm glow the words of praise had given him. 

The agent stood up from his chair and handed over the original copy of the file. “I would appreciate it if you continued to put this level of effort into your reports,” he said. “I will be accepting all files from you from now on.” Clint hurried to his feet and took the few sheets of paper. 

“I admit the compound sentences are easier to follow than ‘There were some bad people. I shot them.’” There was what sounded like a smile in Coulson’s nearly expressionless voice.

Clint surprised himself by smiling back. He folded the papers and tucked them under one arm. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Clint cleared his throat. He was still waiting for the other shoe to fall. “Uh, is that everything?”

Coulson nodded. “Yes.” He didn’t move from behind his desk.

Clint nodded. “Cool.” He turned slowly towards the door, hesitating as he put his hand on the knob. There was no way it could be that easy...

“Mr. Barton?” 

Clint sighed and turned back to Agent Coulson, letting his hand fall away from the door. Of course it couldn’t be.

Still standing behind his desk, Coulson arched an eyebrow at him. He seemed to understand Clint’s wariness and find it amusing. His lips actually lifted a little.

“I know you don’t think much of us here at S.H.I.E.L.D., but if you ever do need anything, please do not hesitate to call.”

He pulled a card from his jacket pocket, walked around his desk, and held it out to Clint. The archer hesitated for a moment, but took it in one hand. It would have been rude not to, he told himself. He could always throw it away later. 

Coulson gave him a nod and opened the door for him, clearly waiting for him to leave. Clint nodded to the senior agent and left, walking away with Coulson at his back. He didn’t look behind him, but he heard the click of the door as it closed. 

Clint glanced at the card five minutes later as he stepped out of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, the embossed lettering easy to read on the plain white background.

It said, “Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.”. Underneath the typed lettering was a hand-written phone number, most likely a cell.

Clint stared at the card for a moment, then shrugged and slid it into his wallet. He would shred it when he got home.

 

*

 

Somehow, Clint never did. The card sat in his wallet, its edges growing dirty and bent over time. Clint didn’t have a lot in his wallet, just his driver’s license and a single credit card he used for emergencies. He had a debit card that he usually carried in his pocket, along with a handful of cash, and a back-up ID in his safe at Stark’s mansion. He had a wad of cash and a burner AmEx in his go-bag, and an identical package in his back-up go-bag, each stashed in separate locations around the city.

He had a similar arrangement in other cities around the world, as well as back-up ID’s for Katie and a spare leash for Lucky. Sometimes it was smart to plan ahead.

But Clint only had this one copy of Coulson’s card. He would take it out and look at it sometimes, usually in the evenings when he was lonely enough to admit it to himself. The nights when his arms ached from the long hours of range practice he had put in during the day, when there was no one to sit with and say “how ‘bout them Rangers?” or something equally stupid.

He kept meaning to get rid of Coulson’s card, but he never did. He worried sometimes that the number could be a security risk, but then Coulson would never have given it to him in the first place. He probably gave similar cards out to lots of junior agents. It wasn’t that big of a deal. 

Clint saw the agent a few more times over the next several weeks. Something big came up, and Clint actually had to liaise with S.H.I.E.L.D. about it. Headquarters was always bustling, agents rushing this way and that, but it was worse during this latest crisis. 

Clint found himself looking for Coulson in the crush. He saw him a few times, but it was always in passing, one of them running one way while the other rushed another. A few times their objectives overlapped, but then Clint was always talking to Fury about whatever was going down, or Hill. 

He asked about Coulson once, when things got bad. The raised eyebrow Fury gave him was enough to tell Clint that if he thought _this_ was bad, he should see what Coulson had to deal with that morning. That shut Clint up.

Fury could say a lot with one eyebrow. It was something Clint respected about the man.

There was one time Clint saw the agent when they actually could have talked, a day when Clint stopped by the cafeteria to grab some food. Coulson caught his eye from across the room and raised an eyebrow. 

It seemed Coulson could say as much with one eyebrow as Fury could, but Clint didn’t have the secret decoder book for his. He wasn’t sure what Coulson was asking him – maybe wondering if Clint needed any help, or asking if he could join him for lunch? Clint wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to presume. He also didn’t need any help that afternoon, and he ate best on the go. So he shook his head and stepped back in line for his sandwich, and when he looked back up, Coulson had gone.

He still had reports to hand in, though, and if they were a little late, it was not Clint’s fault. After the crisis had settled down, Clint went to Coulson’s office to hand them in. 

Coulson was behind his desk when Clint knocked and walked in. The agent didn’t smile, but he didn’t look pissed off, either. 

“Mr. Barton,” Coulson said as Clint tipped himself into the visitor chair.

“Agent Coulson,” Clint replied with a smile. He dug out the package of looseleaf papers that compiled his latest report. “I was going to write a fancy title on this one, like ‘The Case of the Something-Something’, but I couldn’t think of anything ridiculous enough.”

Coulson snorted, an indelicate sound, and reached for the papers. Clint grinned and handed them over.

They talked about the mission and what Clint had learned while chasing down the bad guys, and Coulson took notes. He sighed, several times, when Clint described a situation that could, from the outside, seem as if he may have – perhaps – needed some help. He had handled it, though, and he was well enough to sit down and write a report about it afterwards, so everything had obviously turned out okay.

Coulson never actually _said_ anything, so Clint could pretend he hadn’t noticed. He wasn’t even sure how he knew that Coulson had been genuinely worried, except there was this little line he got between his eyes, and it deepened when Clint described himself doing something stupid.

Clint liked that line.

Coulson didn’t offer his card again when they ended the meeting, and Clint didn’t ask. He didn’t need another one, anyway, because despite everything he still had the original tucked away in his wallet. He had the number memorized by now.

He realized, one day, walking back to his apartment, three goons in the gutter behind him and a new bruise blossoming on the side of his face, that it was the only phone number in his possession. If one of the goons woke up and shot him in the back right now, if the ambulance or the cops were called, then they would probably find the card and call Coulson. 

Clint didn’t like that. He didn’t want to make Coulson responsible for that eventuality. He should probably get Katie to write out her number, or Iron Man, or maybe even Captain America. Someone must have given Rogers a cell phone by now. 

He didn’t want Katie to have to identify his body, though, and it felt like something too personal to ask Stark or Rogers to do. If he had the choice, Clint realized, he’d rather it be Coulson.

He wondered if Coulson had thought about that, the day he gave Clint his card. He figured he probably had. Coulson seemed like the type to think of everything. 

Clint tried to put the matter out of his mind. He wasn’t very successful, though, because three weeks later when he was getting back from a mission, trying to find a cab at the airport and failing miserably, he realized a shadow was stalking him.

They were good, Clint knew as he tried to lose them. They were very good. A mutant, maybe, or another expert assassin. Clint realized with a start that he might not live to see tomorrow.

He needed help. He needed to call someone.

Coulson was the first person he thought of.

He thought of Katie immediately after, of course, but by then he was halfway into the city and still trying to dodge his would-be-attacker. Whoever had found him was good enough to still be on his tail, and he didn’t want to drag Katie into this. Coulson seemed like he could handle himself, and Clint had less fear in calling him and asking for S.H.I.E.L.D.’s assistance than he did endangering his fellow Hawkeye.

Katie might be good, but she was still practically a kid. He didn’t want to see her get hurt, and yeah, he knew she’d kick his ass for that. He was okay with it. 

Clint used every trick he knew, and a few he made up on the spot, to make it to his nearest safe-house. He managed to get in and arm himself in record time, then stood with his back to the wall and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He dialed Coulson’s number from memory.

“Talk to me,” Coulson said, picking up on the first ring.

“Coulson, it’s me – Barton. Someone’s coming for me. I – ”

There was a sharp, sudden _thud_ of impact, and Clint realized it didn’t matter that he had his back to the wall. They were coming _through_ the wall to get him.

Something hit his head and Clint went down. He tried to catch a glimpse of his attackers, but he could only make out a group of shadows all around him, watching him as he went down. Coulson’s voice faded as the phone fell away. “Barton? Barton! Talk to me!”

And then blackness claimed him.

 

*

 

Clint woke in a dark, humid room with a bag over his head that smelled like mildew and flour. His hands were tied behind his back and wrapped around the spine of a chair, and his feet were getting cold.

He _hated_ when his feet were cold.

The bad guys ripped the hood off his face and gave him a second to catch a glimpse of his surroundings before they started punching him. Clint took the blows like a pro, twisting enough so they landed on fleshier bits of muscle, avoiding bones and debilitating injury as best he could. It wasn’t enough. 

There were no mutants in this group, just regular ol’ henchmen, but they hit hard. No henchwomen around to spice things up, and no one bothered asking him any questions. They just kept hitting him. Clint wondered when this had become his life.

It was a stupid question, because he already knew the answer.

Finally, the hitting stopped. Clint’s eyes were rapidly swelling shut, but he managed to keep them open long enough to learn something about his situation. Warehouse? Check. Near the docks? Smelled like fish, so – check. Nighttime? He couldn’t see any windows, but his own internal clock said likely. Perfect.

They didn’t give him a chance to say anything before they replaced the bag back over his head. Clint was too busy trying to spit out blood and get some breath back in his chest to make use of the opportunity.

He would do better next time. There was sure to be a next time.

There was.

It went on like that for hours. The bad guys would come in, boots echoing over the concrete floor, and take the bag off to hit him a few times. Clint tried to see if there was a tape-recorder or a cell phone or something taking a picture or a video of this, but it was hard to make out much. Maybe they just liked hitting him. People did, sometimes. He tried to ask, and made a few – maybe more than a few – insults and inquiries. Neither got him anything. He had the distinct impression that the people hitting him did not understand English.

He tried Russian, because Natasha had been coaching him in her language of choice, but his face was too bruised to get out much more than curses, which was mostly what Natasha had taught him anyway. The henchmen didn’t seem impressed.

He tried to slip the ties when they left him alone, but they had bound his elbows as well as his wrists, and strapped his knees to the chair. He couldn’t get enough leverage to do much of anything, and the chair had been screwed to the floor.

His feet were still cold.

Clint really hated that.

He wondered if this were the end. Sort of a shitty way to go, but more or less what he had expected. He was glad, now, that the only number in his wallet was Coulson’s. He didn’t want Katie to find him here.

The gunshots, when they came, were a bit of a surprise. Clint had been dozing in his chair, consciousness fluttering in and out no matter how many times he told himself it wasn’t safe to sleep. The chair was reasonably comfortable, actually. 

The sounds echoed like gunshots, though. Clint had always had shitty hearing, and one hearing aid had been knocked out by the blows. The other was fitzing slightly, sound filtering in and out around the static, and Clint wasn’t sure if the damage was to his brain or his hearing aid. It sounded like it could be both.

Then came the sound of the warehouse door being busted open, and Clint knew he definitely hadn’t imagined that. He tried to turn his head towards the commotion, but everything hurt now, and he was too stiff to move. There was the sound of different, lighter boots on the concrete floor, and then the bag was being ripped from his head.

Agent Coulson stared down at him, his face calm and calculating, his normally impeccable suit splattered with blood. He was the most beautiful thing Clint had ever seen.

Clint blinked at the force of _that_ realization, and came back himself to find Coulson tipping Clint’s head back and examining his face for injury. Clint wasn’t sure what he could see, but he knew what it felt like. It felt like he had been beaten a dozen times by professionals, which – hey! He had.

“Hey ya, Agent Couls’n,” Clint slurred, tasting blood in his mouth. “How’s life at th’ office?”

“Boring,” Coulson informed him in a quiet tone, but his lip tugged upward into a smile. “I thought maybe I should get out into the field for a change.”

Clint started to nod, then winced. Nodding hurt. “Gotta keep up th’m badass skills,” he agreed. The world was starting to spin a little. Dark spots flared in his vision.

“Hey, Clint. Come on – stay with me.” Coulson snapped his fingers in front of Clint’s face.

Clint tried to focus on them, because they were nice fingers connected to nice hands, connected to a nicer face, but the dark spots were spreading and dragging him under. 

“S’rry, Ag’nt Co’lson,” he mumbled, his eyes drifting closed despite his best efforts. “I’m saf’, so I’m gonna pass out now, ‘k?”

“No Clint, don’t pass out on me. Stay with me, Clint.”

“S’ good to see ya,” Clint slurred as the darkness pulled him under. “You loo’ goo’ in th’ fi’ld ...”

 

*

 

Clint woke up several hours later, or maybe several _days_ later, it was hard to tell. He blinked at the light piercing down from above, and winced.

Something creaked and the light shut off. Clint sighed in appreciation.

“You’re awake,” a familiar voice said. Clint tried to turn his head towards it, but felt dizzy and stopped.

“Careful,” the voice said, “medical still has you on the good drugs.” 

“Not morphine,” Clint tried to say, sitting up suddenly. “I hallucinate with – “

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Coulson said. Clint felt a hand on his chest gently pushing him down. He blinked and tried to focus. “I read your file, I know morphine makes you hallucinate. There’s no morphine, Clint. Just some toradol and a few muscle relaxants – just something to take the edge off. It’s enough to make you dizzy though, so take it easy.”

Clint swallowed and nodded, letting himself be pushed back down onto the bed. It wasn’t hard, and would have been more difficult to resist. Everything hurt.

Which was a good thing, Clint knew. If they had given him morphine, nothing would hurt but Barney would be there, or his father. Clint didn’t want either of them to see him like this.

They were both dead, of course, or the next best thing. Clint still didn’t want them to see.

“S’okay,” he said, blinking to clear his eyes. The world slowly swam into focus, and Clint could see Coulson’s face hovering just above his, the normally impassive agent’s expression edged with something like concern. “I just need to get back to my apartment, then I’ll be okay.”

Coulson’s face tightened, his lips pressing into a thin white line. They were nice lips, Clint thought to himself.

“You aren’t going anywhere right now, Barton.” Coulson said. “Just relax for a moment. You’ve been beaten pretty badly.”

Clint blinked at him, and then tried to sit up. This time Coulson didn’t stop him. 

“I’ve been beaten this badly before, and always recovered at home,” Clint said to him. “And I thought it was ‘Clint’.”

Coulson’s expression softened. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry, Clint.”

Clint had to smile a little at that, even if it hurt. “Pretty sure you saved my life,” he pointed out. “I think we can be on a first name basis now.”

Coulson raised his eyebrows at him, but leaned back. Clint saw that he had pulled a plastic chair next to Clint’s bed. He straightened a little more and looked around – he was obviously in the medical wing of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Beyond the door the doctors and nurses bustled in busy activity.

“Does that mean you’ll call me Phil?” Coulson asked with a half-smile.

Clint gave him a look. “Phil? God no. That’s too weird. But I can call you Coulson, instead of Agent Coulson, if you like. Sound good?”

Coulson’s lips tightened but his eyes danced, and it took Clint a second to work out that he was trying not to smile. “That sounds fine.”

Clint nodded, then winced. “Right. So – Coulson, then. When can I get out of here?” He tried a smile.

Coulson arched an eyebrow at him, and this time Clint could read the amusement in it. “Please tell me that look doesn’t actually work on people.”

Clint stuck his tongue out at him. It hurt. “I will have you know I can be particularly charming, when I try.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Coulson murmured, but then he cleared his throat. “You can leave when you can convince Ms. Bishop you are fit enough to be discharged.”

Clint winced. “Oh, low blow, man. Low _blow_.”

 

*

 

Katie did not think Clint was “fit to be discharged” for three days, during which she at least visited him in medical. Coulson, apologizing, had to go back to work. Apparently saving Clint’s ass created paperwork.

Katie brought him the news, and did a good job at hiding that being at S.H.I.E.L.D. made her as twitchy as it did Clint. 

“Ugh, they call this food? How are you supposed to recover when they serve you slop like this?” Katie asked him, spooning at the soup that had arrived on his tray that day for lunch.

Clint reached for the spoon. She let him take it, which meant he must still look pretty terrible. He had glanced at his reflection in the window that morning and winced. His _bruises_ had bruises. 

“It’s actually not bad,” he told her, speaking of the soup. It was cold and covered in some kind of oily film, but actually tasted pretty good. “Got vegetables and everything in it, didn’t think you had room to complain.”

Katie arched an eyebrow at him, distinctly unimpressed. “It comes from a _can_ , Clint. It’s probably Campbells.”

Clint felt mildly insulted. “Hey, don’t disparage the food of my childhood, Hawkeye. I was raised on this stuff.”

“Yeah, and look how you turned out, Hawkeye,” Katie snorted. But she handed him a pack of crackers.

“Damn straight,” Clint said to her, and took the package. He crumbled them into his soup and spooned up the resulting mess while Katie looked on in horror. “Damn straight.”

 

*

 

By the time Katie and the doctors agreed to _finally_ let him go back to his apartment, Clint was out of a wheelchair and managing just fine without crutches.

“I didn’t actually _break_ anything,” he said to Katie when she tut-tutted him out of the building. “I just sprained everything, repeatedly, on someone’s fist.”

They had kicked him too, actually. Clint didn’t bother mentioning the kicking, but he didn’t think he’d fooled anybody.

“Which is why you should listen to the people who have experience in this sort of thing, and use the crutches so you don’t re-injure yourself and _actually_ break something,” Katie argued.

“Hey, I have a lot of experience with being beaten,” Clint defended himself, struggling into the cab and managing to leaving his crutches behind. “And I know exactly how to prevent re-injuring myself. Ow!” He flinched back from where Katie had pinched him. “What was that for?”

“I feel bad doing anything else, because I’ve seen you naked and you’re one mass of bruises,” she told him, taking her hand back from his hip and manhandling the crutches into the cab. 

The former was at least unfortunately correct. Katie had come in that morning while Clint was getting dressed, and had caught a glimpse of him out of the hospital gown.

“I am perfectly fine getting back to my apartment on my own,” Clint grumbled as the cab rumbled away from the curb. He knocked Katie’s hands away when she would have helped him with his seatbelt.

“My my my, aren’t we grumpy today,” Katie told him as she did up her own seatbelt. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Agent Coulson not coming to see you before you were released, would it?”

Clint ducked his head to focus on his seatbelt, and absolutely _not_ to hide his blush. “Of course not,” he lied.

“Mmm hmm,” Katie hummed at him, clearly not buying it. “You are such a sap,” she told him. “You called him before me.”

Clint rolled his eyes, because this was only about the fifth time they had had this discussion. “I didn't want to get you involved,” he told her again. “Bad guys? Beating me up? Ring a bell?”

Katie stuck her tongue out at him, but then turned and looked out the window. After a few blocks he heard her say, “Coulson had to call me from the hospital,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know what had happened.”

Clint looked over at her. He hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand to take hers and squeeze. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Katie squeezed back. She turned away from the window and gave him a look. “I made him swear to call me as soon as he hears from you next time, so I can help with the rescue, or at least know that one is going on,” she informed him. “He promised he would.”

Clint shook his head. It didn’t hurt so much, anymore. “There isn’t going to be a next time, Katie.”

She glared, and he shrank back from the force of anger. “Why not?” She demanded. “You needed the help, didn’t you?”

Clint stared at her, surprised. “Well – yeah, I guess, but – “

“No ‘buts’,” Katie told him. “Clinton Francis Barton, when you need help, you _call for help_ , okay? Call me, or call Coulson, or call Captain Freaking America, or just call _somebody_ okay? We’re here to help you, if you can get your head enough out of your ass to ask for it.” She took a shuddering breath. “We want to help you.”

Clint’s jaw snapped closed. She stared at him, and he blew out a breath. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Okay,” he nodded.

Katie nodded back. “Okay. Jerkface.”

“That’s Hawkeye-Jerkface to you, Hawkeye.”

Katie smiled at him, and he pretended he couldn't see the tears caught at the corners of her eyes. “Whatever, Hawkeye.”

 

*

 

There was a next time.

It didn’t happen until several months later, but it happened. Clint had managed to mostly rescue himself by the time Coulson showed up with backup, but it was still nice to have someone help him run down the crooks. The time after that, Coulson had to snap his restraints and the two of them rounded on the bad guy before they could make for the hills. Coulson had some serious moves, and Clint had to forcibly keep his mind on the fight he was in and not on the man next to him.

It turned out the guy in charge had been wanted by S.H.I.E.L.D. for unrelated activity, and Coulson scored a major coup by arresting him. The agent found Clint afterwards in his apartment.

“Thanks for calling,” Coulson told him in lieu of hello, when Clint opened the door. “I can withdraw two agents from the line of fire, now that we've arrested Swanson.”

Clint nodded and waved Coulson in. “You did most of the arresting, I just did the getting beaten and providing unexpected bait. But you’re welcome. Coffee?”

The agent stepped into the apartment. “Only if you have actual mugs,” he said.

Clint glared at him from the kitchen. “Has Katie been telling tales out of school again?”

Coulson did that thing where he almost smiled. “We may have had a few discussions regarding your cleanliness of your habits and the lack thereof, while waiting you to awaken in medical, yes,” he said. “I think Ms. Bishop was hoping that disparaging your character would convince you to regain consciousness earlier than expected.”

Clint quirked a smile and rummaged around in his cupboard for two cups. He found a couple that looked mostly clean and ran them under the tap to be sure. “Doesn’t help if I don’t have much character to disparage,” he said.

Coulson frowned as he accepted the coffee. “We both know that’s not true,” he said.

Clint cocked his head and looked at him, and whatever expression he had on his face made Coulson sigh into his coffee. “Well, at least _I_ know that is not true,” he amended.

Clint licked his lips, feeling like he should say something to that. “Um, Coulson...” He began, then trailed off at the look on the other man’s face. Clint straightened his shoulders. “What?”

Something almost like fear flashed across the agent’s face for a second before it smoothed out into its usual bland expressionlessness again. “Would you like to go out for coffee with me?” Coulson asked out of the blue.

Clint froze in the midst of replacing the coffee pot on the heater. He spun back around to face Coulson. “What?” he asked dumbly.

Coulson very deliberately placed his cup on the counter, and looked up at Clint. “Would you like,” he said carefully, enunciating every word, “to have coffee with me?” His lips quirked up in a sort of half-smile. “Not that this isn’t delicious, but I was sort of thinking more at a real coffee shop.”

Clint stared at him. “You mean, like a date?”

Coulson nodded, his gaze steady. “Yes. Like a date.”

There was obviously something wrong with his ears. Or maybe his brain. Clint shook his head to clear it. “You want to date me?” he asked.

Heat came into Coulson’s eyes. “You are a very attractive man,” he said simply, while Clint stared. “I admire your ethics, your dedication to your job, and your sense of humor. I admire _you_ , and I’d like to get to know you better. So – yes. I would like to date you.”

“Oh,” Clint said, staring at him. He felt his jaw fall open, and shut it. “Oh.”

Coulson blinked, and a wall Clint hadn't noticed coming down was suddenly building back up. “It was only an offer,” the agent said. He sounded apologetic and a little stiff. “We can... ”

“Yes!” Clint blurted out, tripping over himself to set down his cup of coffee. It slopped over the edges, but he didn’t care. Coulson was watching him with a wary expression, and Clint took it in. He surprised himself by how much he wanted to memorize that face. Not Coulson worried, necessarily, but Coulson _anything_. Smiling, frowning, glaring, grinning. He wanted to learn every one of the man’s micro-expressions, and he had wanted it for a while.

“Yes,” Clint said again, more in control of himself this time. He ignored the dangerous flutter in his belly. “Yes, I would like to go on a date,” he clarified. “With you. And coffee.”

Coulson watched him for another beat, then smiled. It was a slow, small smile, but it warmed something deep inside Clint’s chest. 

“Okay,” the agent said, and the light was back in his eyes. “Coffee. And then maybe dinner.”

“Dinner sounds good,” Clint agreed with a smile. “I don’t drink though, so don’t be insulted if I only order soda.”

“I like soda,” Coulson told him, resting one hand on the counter top. 

Clint shifted so he lay a hand there as well. He didn't touch Coulson, but he could have. “Who doesn't like soda?” Clint asked. 

Coulson smiled. “I have no idea,” he said, and Clint knew was lying. 

“Yes, you do,” he teased. “You know everything.”

“Not yet,” Coulson said to him, that heat back in his eyes. “But I want to.”

Clint shivered. He kept his gaze locked on Coulson. “Okay,” he promised.

Coulson smiled. “Okay,” he said.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Baby Steps (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/800600) by [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining)




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